City of Lost Angels

There's too much to do in Los Angeles—one can get high or ass-drunk or buy lots of things and go to the beach and make love and get drunk again, in no particular order.

Or one can go on outings with their retired mother and her friends, watch reruns of daytime soaps, and join the occasional bingo nights or bridge games.

He was stuck with the latter. Having heard of his forced leave of absence from the Navy, his mamma had asked him to come. And a good Italian-American boy would never say no to his mamma, especially when said mamma's a widow in her golden years.

When he went to bed on day six, he wasn't expecting anything different come the next morning.

When it arrived, though, it was anything but ordinary.

"Wake up, little boy, and I mean you, not your little friend down there."

He would've asked for five more minutes had the voice belonged to his mamma. Instead of the familiar warmth, he got chills—even though it had been a rather hot night and the ceiling fan was hardly adequate—and knew right away it wasn't her. And besides, she would've never talked like that.

No, this voice was silky, sultry, and, most importantly, familiar.

So he did the most logical thing anyone would do when they saw someone they knew shouldn't be there in their bedroom, their face just inches away from theirs.

He shot up hard and screamed like a girl.

"What the f—"

"Manners, manners, Commander," she, unfazed, wagged a finger and clicked her tongue. "Are you really going to talk to me, Littorio, like a common sailor?"

He pinched a cheek and pulled at it as their eyes continued to meet. All to make sure he was awake and that the sight before him was not the result of his boredom-induced imagination and thoughts best left in a private journal.

Littorio, the pride of Sardegna, was standing before him, looking as vibrant and vivacious as ever...and wearing his mamma's shocking pink, frilly apron, her hair tied into a loose ponytail.

Maybe the fact that she wasn't stark naked under it should be enough to tell him that this wasn't a dream. But that apron still looked wrong on her, and not because it was a touch too small or the way it seemed to accentuate her shapely curves. It was just so plain unflattering that the regal air she always had about her was diminished, like a starlet on a bad publicity tour.

But Littorio, being Littorio, would always find the opportunity to boast.

"I know the sight of me is always dazzling, caro mio, but really, you should get up. Breakfast is ready. And what a glorious breakfast it is."

With that, she strutted out of the room, hips swaying in such a way that he could forgive the apron.

Now that she was out of sight, he could finally say it. The most eloquent response he could think of for what had just transpired.

"What the fuck?"

***

If the apron was surreal before, the sight of Littorio chatting cordially with his mamma, both sipping cappuccino, took it to another level of bizarre—especially because the former seemed to enjoy it without a hint of pretense. Or irony.

He pinched his cheek again. Nope, the sight was as real as the sting on his face. Worse of all, his mamma noticed.

"Antonio, why are you pinching yourself, figlio mio?" She asked. He wished she wouldn't frown, at the very least.

"Signora, perhaps he was enchanted by my beauty," Littorio smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time."

His head was still swimming from everything, and just trying to come up with a retort was beyond him. Not that it would make any difference anyway. Littorio always got the last word in. Then again, he'd always thought that was her most charming quality.

"I'm not surprised, cara. You are a lovely woman, indeed," his mamma's smile, genuine as ever, was somehow able to get Littorio to blush and lose her smirk. She wasn't even trying. Perhaps for all her boasting and bluster and braggadocio, Littorio still had a soft spot for sincerity.

Or, as his gut feeling told him, the truth ran deeper than that. A mother's compliment, especially when she said it like you're one of her own, was a gift only a lucky few would receive.

He wondered if, deep down, that was what Littorio wanted.

"Thank you, signora. I could say the same about you," she recovered quickly enough, but her words lacked her usual swagger. "You're a fine lady and a fine mother."

"Aren't you a charmer," his mamma laughed, cheeks rosy. "If Antonio's half as charming as you are, he'd have a lovely lady like you to marry."

"Oh, signora, he didn't need to be," Littorio smiled and that smile seemed so tender it was almost impossible to accept it belonged to the same woman who had as much subtlety as a runaway train and an ego the size of the Atlantic.

She stopped there, but he understood. And, for that matter, so did his mamma.

Now, with both finally deciding to stop pretending he wasn't there, he soon found himself under their gaze, and he couldn't decide which one was worse. His mamma's, which made him feel like a kid again, or Littorio's, which made him feel like a prey. A naked prey.

"Antonio, when did you become so sly, hiding things from your mamma? You could've told me you're seeing someone, at least."

"Mamma, it's not like that. It's not like we're dating or anything."

"Yet, signora, yet," Littorio cut him off, and the smirk was back, her eyes shining with the fire that he was certain could burn the world.

"Oh, I wish you luck, cara. Really, I'm just worried for my Antonio. All he ever thinks about is work, work, work. What if he gets lonely once I'm gone?"

"Oh, yes, the Commander is indeed a workaholic, so much that his superiors had to step in and force him to take this...vacation before the stress gets to him. Which is also the reason I am here. To make sure he actually takes it easy."

"Oh grazie, Dio mio! What a blessing! You're a godsend! Antonio is so lucky, oh my!"

His mamma never looked so pleased and relieved, and he could practically see the gears turning on her head. The way she looked at Littorio, the same gaze once reserved only for him, could only mean one thing.

Littorio's basically her daughter-in-law now.

His mamma was happy, and he should be, too. But all he could do was be terrified of what that would entail.

"Truly he is, signora. Truly he is," Littorio's smile was radiant, the smile of someone who had the world in her palm. He had a mind to bury his face into the pile of pastries before him.

"Ah, as much as I want to talk more, cara, figlio mio, I must go. Someone needs to be taught that I'm the better poker player...But we could have dinner together sometime, maybe?"

Only then did he realize his mamma was already fully dressed for the day, and it wasn't exactly morning anymore. It was past ten.

"Oh, of course, signora. I would love to, like the Commander here would," Littorio replied. Her tone was polite, but the way she looked at him, even if only a glance, was anything but.

"I'd love to, mamma."

"Fantastico! Now, I'm off," she stood up and gave them both a hug and a kiss—him on the cheek as usual and her on the forehead.

But the affection didn't feel the same now.

"Ciao, you two," his mamma closed the door after one last wave, leaving him with Littorio—it felt like being served on a silver platter. He half-expected her to cackle or something, but she didn't.

"Now, caro mio, I did promise you a glorious breakfast, and so you shall have it."

Soon, laid before him was a very un-Italian, but very American, breakfast of eggs and sausages and some bacon. It was what he liked, and though his mamma preferred having something light and sweet, she would always make sure he could have it whenever he came to visit.

"This is...great," he said between bites, and it wasn't just an effort to be polite or nice. "When did you learn to cook?"

"Me? I'm just helping your mamma make them. She did most of it," Littorio replied in a moment of modesty so rare it could fetch millions at an auction.

"Still, thank you," he said before remembering he was supposed to ask her about one thing that had been bothering him. "...So, how did you know I'm here?"

"Why, caro mio, you probably forgot, but you told people you're coming here, candidly saying you will be spending some time with your mamma. So I followed you here. Admittedly, the rest had to involve some luck. Like meeting said mamma at the supermarket this morning."

"...What?"

"Yes. She came to me and asked if I was the 'lovely signorina' you drunkenly told her about."

"That..."

"'The lovely signorina with the silkiest, greenest hair and eyes like the brightest ruby,' to be exact. I had no idea you could flatter someone like that, Commander. Too bad the person you're flattering wasn't there to hear it hm? And while your flattery pleases me, cheesy as it is, the fact remains that you left without telling me. And that, caro mio, will not stand."

"You were away."

"You could leave a letter. A note. Anything."

"Look, I'm sorry. It's just that everything's too sudden, and..."

"Say no more. I, Littorio, have decided to let bygones be bygones. That is, provided you make it up to me."

"Yeah, sure. Anything you want."

"Anything, hmm?"

He regretted it already, but he wouldn't take it back, not even when her grin turned downright wicked.

"Yes, anything."

"Very well. And I will make sure every moment would be worth carving into your memory. And mine. But for now, you could finish your meal. You'll need it for the day ahead."

He was about to, but then she decided to remove the apron, her back turned on him as the knot was slowly undone. It wasn't what was underneath that gave him thoughts that warranted a visit to the confessional, but the way she did it.

She was deliberate and unhurried, and it was made worse because she knew that he knew she wouldn't go any further than that.

She allowed the apron to fall onto the floor, sliding off her as easily as water from a leaf, and now that he was awake, he could see more clearly the black sleeveless top that revealed too much of her back, though mostly obscured by her hair, and a pair of jeans so tight they could have been painted on.

"Enjoy the food, Antonio."

The look she gave over her shoulder as she spoke before leaving the kitchen had him swallowing hard, and that's before realizing that she had said his name.

He pinched himself again. It was as unpleasant as the strain in his pants.

"Cazzo."

And that was only the beginning.

"Fanculo."

And today's not going to be the last.

"Merda."

And there's no escape.

"Well, fuck."

***

He spent the better part of his shower taking care of the unwelcome need that Littorio had either inadvertently or perhaps wittingly aroused, trying his best to shut further thoughts of her out to keep it short.

The more he did, the wilder the imagination rampaged, so vivid that the imaginary touches and breath on his skin felt too real, too hot, too close. And then his thoughts strayed even further, to unseemly and depraved deeds of the flesh—of their slick bodies joined, writhing and shaking, of hands wandering, caressing, feeling, groping, squeezing, of their names and wants whispered and moaned, all culminating in the sweet release.

It was a good thing that the sound of rushing water drowned the noise he made as he finished and that his mamma wasn't around. He stared at his hand, still coated with the sticky, warm, white fluid as he leaned against the wall for support, and the post-release shame hit him like a train.

How did he become so weak? And of all people, why did she have to be the cause?

He thoroughly washed everything after that, the most he had ever done. He changed into the best clothes he could think of, even though he had not planned to wear anything too fancy. He just felt like it after what had happened.

Stepping out of the room wearing a blue button-up shirt and black pants, he was greeted by the sight of Littorio waiting by the door. She had changed into a sleeveless, loose-fitting floral dress that ended just a little above her ankles, the straps thin and the neckline modest. Yet somehow, that only made everything about her more alluring.

"Took your sweet time, didn't you?"

She knew. She definitely knew.

"Ah...um, sorry," he hated how much he sounded like a boy caught stealing from a cookie jar.

"I understand, Commander; it can't be helped, after all," Littorio's smile was knowing but not understanding—and certainly unkind. "So, don't you think it's about time we go?"

"Yeah," he nodded, not knowing who would lead who and how, even though it was she who offered her hand first because when he took it, noting that her slender fingers belied the firm strength of her hold, she said nothing, she did nothing else. She waited.

And he knew better than to keep her waiting again.

He took the first step, and she followed.

***

Los Angeles was no small town in some countryside, far from it, and despite it being a clear day with just the right amount of sunshine and summer breeze, he was too occupied with racking his brain for the slightest idea of where to go or what to do. Then again, he was only here once or twice before. Shocking, but true.

Littorio wasn't helping either, not with her silence or the smile, which, despite everything and the fact it belonged to her, seemed oddly content. But that proved more troubling than reassuring.

"Um, hey."

"Hm?"

"...Uh...do you want to go to the beach, maybe? Like, I don't know, Santa Monica or Venice Beach? Or Hollywood or something? Just pick somewhere."

How trite. He felt like smacking himself in the face.

"Why, that's an excellent idea, caro mio."

Or not. But then again, the glimmer in her eyes could've been his own wishful thinking.

It was easy. Too easy.

"That's great," he could, at least, sound as confident in his choice as she did, deciding that her agreement was a stroke of luck and hoping it wouldn't run out too soon.

Santa Monica Beach was closer, so that's where they went, arriving when the sun was just past its zenith. The shore was teeming with families and lovers and lonesome souls, enjoying the sun, the water, and each other on this side of the Pacific Coast.

"Look at these people and think how fortune smiles on us, caro mio," she quipped as they strolled past her gawkers—men, women, old, young.

"Because you're being stared at?" He couldn't quite hide the distaste coating his tongue.

"Hm. No. No. Something more important," her gaze trailed to their joined hands.

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed."

He almost let her go. She stopped him.

"Not now, Antonio."

That's what she said, but the words and his name, how they came out her lips, told him of another desire that can only be implied.

Not now, not ever.

But maybe that was just him.

***

Littorio didn't let go, even when pausing to take off her sandals.

Soon, her steps were leaving impressions of her feet on the sand, delicate and immaculate.

The way her locks were billowing in the breeze, swaying and dancing along with the wind currents, and the way she routinely tucked the errant strands behind her ear without flourish or pretense, was so human.

As did the sight of her staring into the distance, searching for something, or anything.

He held his breath and tongue lest he ruined the flawless illusion.

She stopped by the water, allowing the foamy tide and the sea spray to lick her feet, then her ankles, then finally her legs and the ends of her dress, the now translucent fabric clinging to her skin.

She smiled, and he wondered.

A common routine, really.

"Come, Antonio."

It would be an invitation that he wasn't quite sure he could refuse if only she didn't pull him by the collar of his shirt, into her, into the water, with such quickness that belied the grace of her every movement.

It was cold. She was warmer.

By reflex, his hands found purchase on her waist, the fabric damp and smooth, and the skin underneath must have been softer still.

When he realized it, it was too late to take his hands off and pretend nothing happened because she had hers wrapped around his neck, her fingers brushing against his nape and hair.

So close. So dangerously, terribly close.

So fleeting.

One moment, they were holding each other, and the next, they weren't. But it didn't take long for her hand to reach forward, at first to fix whatever was wrong with his shirt, then whatever was wrong with his hair, then to run a thumb across his cheek.

And last, to find his own again.

"You should smile more, just like that. If you do, then perhaps this place would truly be as glorious as Campania."

He wanted to ask if he really did, but she was already looking at something else. Or maybe some things. Things unknown, things unseen, things unfound.

He watched and watched, relishing in the sight of her but also seeking what she sought, trying to get a glimpse of her world.

For he realized how little he knew.

The more he did, the less he understood and the more he wanted.

***

They walked until their feet ached or took a ride whenever they fancied it.

They took a seat whenever they felt like it, wherever they wanted.

Sometimes, she would take him places. Sometimes, he would lead.

She would smile, unasked. So did he, like she wanted.

They skipped lunch, but he felt sated.

As fate—or just their whims—would have it, they ended up at the Third Street Promenade. The shops were as bustling as ever, with the usual wares sold.

He didn't know if the trinkets would catch her eye. Probably not. Not something so pedestrian.

Yet when his eyes happened upon a certain place, he knew he had just to get her those.

"Um, Littorio, can you...uh, wait here, for a second?"

"Telling me to wait after you ran away on me, hm?"

"...Please."

"It's a joke. But don't keep me waiting too long, Antonio, or else—"

"Yes, I got it."

"Good. Go before I change my mind."

It really didn't take long for him to come out of the shop, bearing a bouquet of fresh roses, exactly 11 in number, all shaded gentle pink.

As he walked back, he did his damnedest to silence the voice whispering doubts into his ears.

Sure, it was another cliche and a cheesy gesture. But the flower lady, a kindly grandmother, had been encouraging.

Even before he could ask if she liked it, much less give the bouquet to her, she had spoken.

"Oh, roses. How thoughtful. How romantic, Antonio."

"Yeah. Well, these are for you," he held the bouquet to her.

"Oh? Thank you, Antonio. They are lovely."

She had no boast to add to that, like how she usually would. No smug words, no coy remarks, no sly insinuations, nothing.

"This is the first time I received pink roses," she brushed her fingers across the petals.

"Really...? Well, I just...uh, described you to the flower lady. She suggested those."

Maybe it had to do with the fact that he might've been a touch too passionate when describing her. Or maybe a lot, indeed.

"I see. I do wonder what you told her."

"I..."

"Hm, no, no. Save it."

A finger on his lip did the trick.

"Thank you."

Littorio never thanked someone twice. And certainly not with that look in her eyes.

Pensive. Uncertain. So wrong. It didn't belong there.

From the flowers, her eyes trailed down, to their hands once again joined.

"Take me."

Her voice was softer than ever, but the will remained strong.

"Where?"

"Anywhere."

***

Going back to Santa Monica Pier at sunset. How predictable. It was the first place that came to his mind.

Nobody was fishing anymore, but there were people still, some below, on the shore, frolicking around the pillars, some others above, on the boardwalk, making merry or just sitting on the benches, leaning on the railing.

She was among the latter, and the sight was a familiar one. Of her looking into the infinite horizon overlooking the vast expanse.

Searching for something, anything.

She had not looked away from it. He had not looked away from her.

"What are you...looking for?" For once, he found the courage to ask.

"An answer."

"To what?"

"What are we? Who are you?"

"...What?"

"We've been through many things. Yet I wonder. Who you are. Who I am. To you."

"Littorio, you're—"

"Yes, I know what the world sees in me, Commander. But what do you see? What do you truly see in me?"

He wanted to laugh, if not for the pain he heard in her voice, and remembering what he did this morning.

She had been many things to him. A fellow warrior. A fellow leader. A subordinate. A friend. A foe. An object of physical attraction. An object of apprehension. An enigma. An open book. An equal. A non-equal. Someone out of reach. Someone so near. The height of his pride. The death of his dignity.

An angel.

A demon.

A goddess.

The Devil.

Someone worthy of all the love the heart could bear.

Someone deserving of all the loathing the mind could muster.

Perhaps he had begun to understand when they were at the beach earlier. Perhaps that was what the bouquet was for.

It was, in a way, a sign of a past failure.

That he had never truly known her for who she was.

The realization was as sobering as it was humbling.

And with that realization, came the understanding. The acceptance. The shame.

All that desire, all that adoration, all the fears, all thoughts pure or otherwise, were merely the manifestation of a devotion to an ideal. A fantasy. An idol.

Not her.

Littorio was no longer all those. She shouldn't be. Not anymore.

It wasn't about her beauty. She could've bled and borne a thousand scars and burns, and how he saw her would never change.

It wasn't about her strength. She could've been left broken and crippled, and how he saw her would never change.

It wasn't about her intellect. She could've been left unable to tell left and right, and how he saw her would never change.

For all those qualities were a part of her, but not the sum of her.

She was her.

Just her.

"You're a Littorio. You are you. You're no longer the woman of my dreams, an idea I clung to, or a stranger. And heavens help me, you're someone I want to know. Someone I want to love."

Her grasp on the bouquet was so tight, as did her hold on the railing.

"I...I wanted to know you. But I'm afraid. Afraid that my feelings will change," she said in between the quiet. "I'm not used to this. This feeling of weakness. This vulnerability. But...I don't want it to end. Not like this. Not like us."

"It's not over. It's just started. And that scared me too."

She turned and stared at him, eyes glistening.

"Can I know you?"

"Yes."

"All of you, Antonio?"

"All of me."

Closer. Closer, and closer. She was no longer within arm's reach.

"I thought I knew you. But that was only after only a night. How vain I was, how foolish," a soft sigh escaped her lips. "We were closer than we had ever been, then and now...and yet I know nothing. Nothing about you. I thought I had gotten everything. Conquered all. I have won, but I have lost."

"You and I both. That one night left me with a warped impression of you. An angel, a demon, gracing me, a nobody—just for a moment. A whim. And then, nothing else. A dream. A passing glory. An interlude. I hated. I yearned. And now...now..."

"We've found each other. But how long would it last? When would it end?"

"There's only one way to find out."

He was the one who moved forward, bridging the gap, until they were just inches apart.

"Just stay. Stay. And we'll find out."

The feeling of her wordless answer on his cheek was nothing like ever before.

***

The sun had long dipped beneath the horizon. Then came the twilight, and the dusk. The City of Angels was bright still.

She was shining, but in a way that was so unlike her. Not a shine of glory and pride or victory. The shine of one who had lost and had found.

And it was not out of reach nor unfathomable.

He was alright with the fact that the day would end with him dropping her off at her hotel room.

After all, that wouldn't be the end of everything.

But she didn't share the sentiment. Before he could even voice a goodbye, she had him by the sleeve.

It was reminiscent of that night. But it was different in many ways.

"Stay."

She didn't push. She asked.

She wasn't desperate. She was hopeful.

She wasn't despairing. She was content.

"...Let me tell my mamma."

His mamma didn't pry where he had been the whole day. He told her candidly, like a good boy would, that he might not be home for the night. He could've sworn she was cheering on the other side of the call—his mamma, ever worldly-wise, would've known. Would've understood. He was happy that she was happy for him.

Now that was taken care of, he walked through the door—on his own accord, at his own pace, by his own will.

***

She wasn't merely boasting when she said she would make every moment worth carving into memory. Theirs.

It's just not in the way he imagined.

She didn't laugh, then—only smiling throughout, thin and indifferent and only a little smug. It was a cold affair, the passion of their union chilled and subdued, almost detached. When they were done, she turned her back on him, silent, before drifting to sleep. No words of endearment, not even a good night. And by the next day, she was gone, and they both had the gall to pretend nothing ever happened. They remained cordial. She continued being her, and he was the same, under the tacit understanding that it had been an unremarkable fling and a regrettable mistake and not to be repeated—or so he thought.

Now she laughed freely, her groans, moans, gasps, and sighs peppered with mirth and glee, her fingers gentle as they threaded and tangled through his hair and caressed his face—cheeks, lips, nose, chin and all, before dancing and skipping upon the rest of him.

And this time, he was glad to match her rhythm, beat for beat.

They were bare, again, now down to their very selves.

But he wasn't afraid to look, and neither did she.

Not even when it was all over.

She didn't turn her back on him again. He found her nuzzling her face into his chest, her ragged breaths still carrying the tinge of a lingering chuckle.

"Thank you."

He didn't need to ask what for.

"Thank you, too."

He didn't need to specify the reason.

"See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow."

And that was only the beginning.

And today's not going to be the last.

And there's no escape.

Not that he minded.